


Tell the Refrain of this Beautiful World

by MDJensen



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Chronic Illness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sick Steve, Steve being Uncle Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:41:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24877864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: Steve gets sick at Charlie’s school concert. Danny’s understanding, but that doesn’t make him feel any better (except it kind of does).
Comments: 26
Kudos: 114





	Tell the Refrain of this Beautiful World

**Author's Note:**

> warning for tummy troubles, but nothing too descriptive; also warning for heavy discussion of chronic illness

Thursday starts out well. It’s the first time all week that Steve sleeps ‘til his alarm; for the past few days, cramps have sent him to the bathroom by 0400. It’s been mostly out of his system by work, so he hasn’t counted them as _spells_. Still it’s nice to wake up and just linger in bed for a moment, rested and pain-free.

What’s more, it’s perfect timing. Charlie’s concert is tonight, and even though Steve’s been able to go about his normal routine all week, he’s been too tired to do anything in the evenings. Yesterday he’d started worrying he’d have to back out.

But maybe, for once, he’s going to catch a break.

The day continues well. No case; so they catch up on some paperwork, and Steve even finds time to look over some cold cases he’s been meaning to review.

(And, he has coffee for the first time in days— he’s been too afraid of pissing off his stomach— and, _holy shit_ , he’d missed it. Tani brings cappuccinos for everyone and he just goes for it and it’s _glorious_. And his stomach, mercifully, allows it.)

At 1700 Steve heads home, showers, changes. Then he ends up roughhousing with Eddie, getting covered in fur, and using six damn sheets of lint roller; but he’s smiling the whole time. He’s still smiling when he hears his front door open, and Danny calling his name.

In the car, Charlie vacillates between nerves and excitement. He bounces in his booster seat, singing under his breath, kicking Steve’s seat once or twice as he swings his legs to keep rhythm.

At school he immediately scampers off to his classroom. Steve wraps an arm around Danny’s shoulders and guides him into the auditorium; because if _he’s_ feeling kind of verklempt about how grown-up Charlie’s getting, then _Danny_ must be halfway to real tears.

A student hands them each a program as they enter. They find some good seats— towards the front but on the aisle— and settle down to look through them. Charlie’s class, Steve sees, is singing two Hawaiian children’s songs. There are other groups doing similar songs, as well as a few dancing hula; and the fourth graders, he sees, will be playing recorders.

Danny must be reading at the exact same pace, because he elbows Steve in the ribs. “Why are recorders so freaking universal? Huh? Five thousand miles away, Grace did ‘em too. An’ you know what? I think I remember Eric doin’ ‘em. _Why_?”

Steve doesn’t have the answer, and he says so. Danny just scoffs and shakes his head, and they keep flipping until they get to the last page. Idly, Steve turns it over to see if there’s anything on the back.

There is: in bolded italics, a message asking guests not to leave until the concert is over, _regardless of where your student features in the program_. This is followed by a politely-worded implication that you’re an asshole if you do.

Steve hopes they don’t catch a case.

Or, y’know. Don’t have to leave for any other reason.

That’s one of the hardest things about the radiation sickness; even on a good day he’s always planning for the worst.

In this case, apparently, he isn’t wrong to do so.

They’ve just made a starting-in-five-minutes announcement when Steve feels the first twinge. He ignores it. He hadn’t eaten dinner before the concert, in case it decided not to sit well; the discomfort he feels could just as easily be hunger.

The second wave is harder to ignore. Still it’s nothing awful, and Steve decides to hold out hope that it’ll just turn out to be a stomachache— unpleasant but with no action required. He shifts, sinks down a little, trying to make himself comfortable. Danny’s chatting with a parent in the row behind them now; he bats absently at Steve’s knee when Steve moves, but he doesn’t turn around. Perfect. If the last thing Steve wants to do is get sick during Charlie’s performance, the next-to-last thing he wants to do is make Danny worry during it.

But eventually there’s no denying the facts. As the first group of students file shyly onto the stage, Steve feels the prickle of nauseous sweat beginning along his hairline. His insides are roiling. In only five minutes he’s gone from fine to achy to _I don’t know which end it’s gonna come out of but something’s coming out of me SOON_.

This is definitely the start of a spell.

He holds out for the pause between classes. It’s the best he can do.

“You okay?” Danny mutters, as Steve rises, trying to keep his head down.

Steve grunts. “Bathroom,” he manages; and then he’s limping up the aisle.

He finds one almost immediately. But one glance inside shows that it’s a kid’s bathroom, and with tons of stalls; and as urgent as the situation is, that’s just not happening. He’s not a modest man, but he needs an ounce more privacy than that. There’s got to be an adult bathroom around here somewhere—hopefully single-stall, but even if not, less likely to be used—

Come on, bathroom. The pain’s bad enough now that he’s walking stiffly, slowly, which is _necessary_ , but also just prolonging the search—

He’s coming closer to the main office now. Maybe, if nothing else, he’ll find a stray secretary there whom he could ask— or, hell, an evacuation plan posted that might double as a map—

Then, just before the office, is a door reading _Faculty Room_. Is it worth a shot? Glad of an empty hallway, and an unlocked door, Steve lets himself inside. And— yes. Thank god. There’s a door in the corner with the typical signage, and it’s open a crack, and he honestly says a little prayer in relief as he hobbles towards it.

Inside, Steve locks the door, turns on the sink, drags the trash can within easy reach. And spends a few minutes shitting his brains out.

At least he never ends up needing the trash can.

When he can think coherently again, Steve pulls out his phone and opens a text to Danny. _Commandeered the faculty bathroom_ , he sends. _Going to sit here a few minutes._

The reply is immediate. _You ok?_

_Stomachs acting up. Not dying._

_Ok_ , Danny replies; and then hopefully goes back to enjoying the show.

It’s a while before Steve feels safe to wash up and drag himself back out to the main area of the faculty room. It’s still empty, thankfully. He doesn’t relish the thought of the conversation he’d have to have if somebody had borne witness to the last few minutes; probably something along the lines of, _hi, so, my nephew’s concert is tonight, but I sort of have chronic radiation poisoning, and so instead of watching first graders sing songs about tree snails, I’m hiding out in your faculty bathroom. Doing gastrointestinal things._

Yeah, just as well he doesn’t have to.

It’s cool in the room, and blissfully quiet. Steve’s got a headache now (not to mention almost definitely a fever), and Charlie’s performance is probably over at this point. So maybe he’ll stay here a moment. Most of the furniture in the room is composed of plastic bucket chairs around a large grey table, but there are two careworn armchairs in the corner. He sinks into one of these, and just breathes.

The smell of the room isn’t quite familiar, but it seems like it should be; if he’d been asked, as a kid, to guess what the faculty room smelled like, it would probably have been this. It’s cleaning products and copier toner. A whiff of either perfume or air freshener, and the overriding scent of old building, of sturdy, tired walls.

It reminds him of his mom. Not _Doris_ , necessarily— but his mom as he remembers her from his childhood. A mild, kindhearted woman. Clever, but never _calculating_. The sort of person who’d sit at a table like this one, eating lunch and grading papers. Making small talk with her colleagues. 

Sometimes it seems like his earliest impressions were of another person entirely.

Tears threaten to form in his eyes. He doesn’t allow them to; but with no one there to witness it, Steve does let his body droop.

He just really wanted to see Charlie perform, is the thing. As silly as grade school concerts might be, he loves his nephew and, yes, apparently that means that he wants to see him flail his hands and scream out lyrics in mispronounced Hawaiian.

He wants to go back in there, in case he didn’t miss it. But also, he wants to go home.

And mostly? He wants to stop feeling so fucking awful all the time.

Instead he just sits, pressing placatingly at his fitful stomach.

Across the room from him, the door creaks open.

It could be anyone, really; but Steve knows who it is even before he hears the familiar voice. Danny snorts softly as he steps inside and shuts the door behind him. “Y’know, forty years old, and I still feel like I’m being sneaky, comin’ in here.” He pauses. “You, uh, alive?”

“Mm.” Steve doesn’t bother to raise his head. “Did I miss Charlie’s class?”

“Yeah,” Danny replies, lightly. “It’s, uh, time for the freaking recorders, apparently. So if you’ve got any kind of headache— unless you really like Hot Cross Buns— you made the right choice stayin’ in here.”

“Figured I wouldn’t make it back in time,” Steve mutters, feeling freshly miserable. He can see Danny’s shoes now; he’s standing close. One more step and Steve could rest his head on his friend’s hip and get his hair mussed— but no. He’s gross. He just expelled a literal gallon of diarrhea and he doesn’t get to do _physical affection_ right now. He just doesn’t.

“This is nice,” Danny murmurs, still making a tour of things. “They got the copier in here... fridge... got their own bathroom...”

“Yeah, lucky for me. Didn’t wanna traumatize any little kids, walkin’ in one me blowing up the boys’ room.”

“Look at you, being discrete.” Steve still hasn’t looked up, but he tracks Danny’s feet as the man goes and perches lightly on the other armchair. “How you feel?”

Steve blinks; the threat of tears is back, and it’s embarrassing and it’s _frustrating_. “Not good.”

“Anything I can do?”

“No.”

“Can I at least see if you’ve got a fever?”

“What difference does it make? I know what it is. It’s not contagious.”

With this, he finally raises his head— and is immediately met by Danny’s hand, pressing gently to his cheek, then his neck.

“Yeah,” Danny hums. “You do.”

“Woo-hoo.”

“I’ll get Charlie. We’ll head home.”

“’s rude,” Steve mutters, trying not to scowl as Danny’s touch disappears.

“No, breaking into the teachers’ room and stinking up the place is rude. This is a courtesy.”

“They said in the program—”

“They said don’t skedaddle after your kid’s class because you’re an entitled jerk. You hadda read the fine print, babe; you can skedaddle if you’ve got, y’know. The poops.”

Steve can’t help but laugh. For somebody who’s chock-full of his own existential dread, Danny’s really good at making everything else seem not-so-bad. Unpleasant, maybe, but manageable. “That was in the fine print?”

“Yeah. The excretory exemption.”

More laughter, and Steve hugs himself so his stomach isn’t jostled. “The loo loophole?”

“Nice. Nice. The, uh— the intestinal irregularity.”

Then the burst of good humor fades, as a fresh wave of cramps overtakes him. Steve groans. “You filmed it, right?”

“’course. Hey, sit tight, okay? ‘mma get Charlie, I’ll be back in a sec.”

“Actually,” Steve mutters, dragging himself to his feet. “Lemme meet you in the lobby in lil’ bit.”

“Understood,” Danny replies, already heading from the room.

The second round sucks just as much. By the time it’s over Steve’s actually shaking, be it from exertion or dehydration or just pain. (Because that’s the worst thing about these spells: they _hurt_. When he’s done in the bathroom the cramps might stop for a while, but there’s no relief from the underlying _ache_.) With unsteady hands, he pats water on his overwarm face.

Then he takes some deep breaths and fixes his posture; it’s bad enough Charlie has to miss his friends performing, he shouldn’t also have to see his uncle looking like an actual mess.

Steve beats Danny to the lobby. There’s a bench there, so he perches on the edge to wait, though he doesn’t have to wait long. Only a minute or two passes before he hears footsteps coming down the hall.

“Uncle Steve!”

Charlie’s acquired a lei since arriving; the pink plastic flowers are nearly as bright as his expression. But as he comes to a halt, this tempers a little. “Danno says your tummy hurts so bad,” Charlie says, sounding uncertain.

Steve forces a smile. “Yeah, it does. But I’ll be okay. Hey, I’m so sorry I missed your songs, buddy.”

“It’s okay,” Charlie replies, smiling back. “I did a mistake anyway.”

“Oh yeah? Everybody makes mistakes.”

“I was um’pposed to do this”— he waves his arms broadly— “when we say sky. But I did it when we said earth too.”

“I bet your moves were still the coolest.”

“Everybody has the same moves,” Charlie replies, visibly confused; and despite it all Steve laughs again.

“Fair enough.”

“I can show you later. I can sing and I can show you my dance.”

“Yes, please. I really wanna see.”

Charlie smiles. He reaches for Steve’s hand, and brightens even further as Steve grabs on and makes like Charlie is pulling him to his feet.

They keep holding on as they head from the building. Danny takes Charlie’s other hand, completing the chain, and Steve sighs in relief. He hadn’t _really_ thought either of them would be mad. Not really.

But the confirmation’s nice.

In the car Steve waves off the keys; and shit, he must really look bad, for Danny to be freely offering them. But the pain’s bad enough he’d rather space out for a while.

Much as he hates to admit that, even to himself.

Still he folds up in the seat and does just that: tries to ignore the physical world as best as he can. He stares out the window, at the fading orange sky. He hears voices at one point— Charlie asking if he can sing now, Danny telling him that tomorrow would be better— but although he understands the words he tries not to process them. 

He doesn’t need to feel more isolated than he already does.

Most of him wants the car ride to end quickly. In twenty minutes he’ll be curled up in bed (or possibly on the bathroom floor) but either way he’ll have sweatpants and silence and privacy.

But he’ll also be alone.

Why can’t he just be feverish and weak and let it end there? If that were it, he’d wheedle Danny and Charlie into staying with him, keeping him company, providing tea and snuggles to take his mind off it all. But no. He can’t just be sick, he’s got to be— disgusting. Got to be the kind of sick where you don’t get comforted, you get quarantined.

And when the hell did he become so adept at self-pity—?

“We good?”

Steve blinks back to reality. Danny’s question probably means something along the lines of, _do you need me to find a fast food place whose bathroom you can destroy_? So he grunts that he’s fine. That’s the singular definition by which he’s _fine_ right now.

“Five minutes out, huh?” Danny reports, voice even.

And indeed, a short while later they’re parking in Steve’s driveway; he stares up at the house, relieved, but already so lonely he could cry.

Not that he will, of course. But before it gets any more tempting, he says a quick goodnight to Charlie and hauls himself out of the car.

The quiet of the street is broken by the shutting of two separate doors. Danny steps around from the driver’s side, and lingers a few feet away, hip against the Camaro’s hood.

“Do you, uh. Needa go inside, like, urgently?”

Steve snorts, again hearing Danny’s real meaning. _Do you need to shit_ right _now_? Surprisingly, he doesn’t.

Steve shakes his head.

“Okay,” Danny replies, standing up straight now. “C’mere. Come here, what’re you, coy all of a sudden?”

Steve frowns. It looks a lot like Danny’s waving him in for a hug, but that doesn’t make sense— but Danny _doesn’t_ do stuff like this unless he genuinely wants to—

So Steve steps forward, ducks down. Danny wraps both arms around him and hugs him carefully, swaying just a moment before going still.

It’s not a tight hug. Danny has one hand at the base of his skull and one at the small of his back; but they both just linger, like Danny’s afraid of hurting him. It doesn’t matter. Steve folds, hides against his friend’s neck and clings fiercely, even though Danny won’t. The fever’s making him the slightest bit tipsy. It’s nice to have something solid to hang on to, if only for a moment.

And, as he has been all along, Steve hears what Danny isn’t saying.

_I’m sorry you had a bad night._

He squeezes back and hopes Danny can hear what he himself isn’t saying, too.

 _I’m sorry my bad night affected somebody besides myself_.

“Okay,” Danny huffs, with a final, soft squeeze. “I’ll check on you in the morning.”

“‘s just a spell,” Steve whispers. “You don’t need—”

“I’ll _check on you_ ,” Danny repeats, “in the _morning_.” He pulls away. “Maybe you’re up for toast, by then, I’ll make you some toast.”

“You’re gonna drive to my house to put bread in my toaster?”

“What, you don’t believe me?” Danny smirks. “You, uh. You got Pedialyte?”

Steve thinks briefly of the contents of his fridge, and remembers pretty quickly that there’s just one small bottle left. He doesn’t want Danny to make a trip to the store— but he might not have a choice. Dehydration’s never good, but for a transplant patient, it’s _bad_. And for a transplant patient who’s also irradiated?

He can’t risk it.

(And God, if he has to choke down another DIY rehydration drink, he’ll scream.)

“Almost out,” Steve admits, quietly.

“Okay. Purple still your favorite?”

Steve nods. Danny reaches up, musses his hair. “Go lay down, huh? You need me before morning, you just call.”

Another nod; then Steve drags himself away and shuffles up the path to his front door.

He doesn’t hear the car start until he’s already stepping inside.

Not too much later he’s in bed, with a hot water bottle, the last of his Pedialyte, and Eddie curled up by his feet. And yeah, the privacy’s pretty nice. He’s fifteen feet away from his own damn bathroom, shared with nobody (and stocked with the good kind of toilet paper). He showered, which helped a little, too.

Still, he feels gloomy. Just, _down_. And drained. And sick.

For a few minutes now, he’s been trying to focus on the positives— because there are positives. Or at least there are bright spots. Namely, that Danny’s a grumpy, unaccommodating guy in most respects, but if you’re going to go and develop a chronic illness? He’s probably the best friend you could ask for. So that’s something not-so-bad.

But optimism isn’t easy, when you’re feeling _this_ lousy.

The fever’s brought on chills by now. Steve lowers himself carefully to lie on his left side; tugs the blankets higher, hugs the water bottle closer. And, what else can he do? He just waits for the spell to pass.

He’s halfway to dozing when a text alert rouses him; from someone else he might be annoyed, but it’s from Danny. He swipes it open; reads, _how you holding up?_

Steve smiles a little. _Im holding_ , he replies.

 _Not saying this will help but maybe this will help_ , Danny sends, followed by a file that begins to download. A few seconds later a video pops up, and Steve clicks to full-screen it.

There’s about two dozen kids on stage, but it’s easy to spot Charlie; not only is he the sole towhead in the group, he’s also the only one practicing his moves while they wait for the music. Steve feels his smile widen even as a fresh shiver runs through him.

Both songs are short, and the video is over in just a few minutes. So he watches it again. Then maybe once more. By the time he absolutely _needs_ to tuck his exposed arm back under the blanket, the second song is stuck in his head.

He’s heard it before. Maybe he even sang it in a school concert, himself, though he has no memory of doing so. It’s a simple song. A tiny love letter to the islands, that makes him homesick in a strange (but also strangely pleasant) way.

_I uka lâ i uka, nâ ulu lâ`au; i kai lâ i kai, nâ i`a o ka moana…_

_Upland, up in the uplands, the grove of trees; in the sea, the sea, the fishes of the ocean…_

He’s humming, he realizes, as snippets swim through his mind. He can picture Charlie, doing his over-exaggerated, over-rehearsed motions; he can hear the clumsy chorus of kids’ voices and he tells himself— truthfully or otherwise— that he can pick out his nephew’s from the mix.

_Ha`ina mai ka puana a he nani ka ao nei…_

_Tell the refrain of this beautiful world…_

And somehow, the longer he hums to himself, the less lonely he feels. He braves the (perception of) cold to snake his arm back out for his phone and send a quick message.

_Did help. Thank you._

He leaves the phone where he can read the reply, which comes quickly: _Good. You get a private performance as soon as youre up for it. Maybe saturday we do that and then pancakes._

Steve doesn’t text back; but he’s sure Danny knows he’ll be up for it. Hopefully. If his body cooperates, there’s no question that the rest of him will be all too eager. And maybe if his body doesn’t cooperate, Danny could bring Charlie by anyway. If he’s home, and if he’s taken time to rest, he’d probably be okay for a while even if he were still feeling sick.

Okay. So, Saturday. Saturday he’ll see Charlie again, and hear him sing, and get to praise him in person. Danny will be there too. And, maybe, pancakes.

That’s not too bad, Steve decides, huddling deeper into the safety of his blankets; the water bottle against his belly is not only relaxing his muscles but it’s warming the bed up nicely. At his feet, Eddie huffs, and shifts. Out the window it’s finally growing dark enough to feel right for sleep.

And in Steve’s head, Charlie’s song is still playing. In the funny way that earworms do, it has worked itself down to a single, repeated line.

_Ha`ina mai ka puana a he nani ka ao nei…_

_Tell the refrain of this beautiful world…_

_Tell the refrain of this beautiful world…_

**Author's Note:**

> All right, so! Definitely working on both the prequel and the sequel to _Safely Rest_ , but I was thinking I might take the time for a few oneshots first. (Maybe. I can never predict my own writings, lol.) Anyway, I know y'all love miserable Steve, and I love miserable Steve too, and I was just thinking (again) about how we never really get to see the radiation sickness affecting his life. Which it obviously must have. Oh well. In any case, I hope you enjoy :)
> 
> Songs, including lyrics, were found on mamalisa.com.


End file.
